


Here & There - one-shots for Lion & Lace

by humble_beginnings



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 15:04:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9277292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humble_beginnings/pseuds/humble_beginnings
Summary: One-shot stories to follow Lion & Lace's Tom and Becca





	1. Presents and Pudding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas 2016 - Becca has a surprise Tom won't forget in a hurry. Also covers their first wedding anniversary.

A black canvas sky twinkles with shimmering silver stars, the frigid air still and peaceful. The street below is empty and quiet, the parked cars like faithful sleeping animals waiting for their owners' call in the chaos of visiting every branch of the family tree in the following days. In some of the houses tiny lights still sparkle in the windows like beacons guiding Santa to the good children, or in our case providing a little festive warmth for a wife eagerly awaiting the return of her husband.

 

With a yawn I let the curtain fall back into place and return to my book on the couch, willing him to hurry, praying he will be home before I fall asleep. The picture on the wall draws my attention, a photograph taken at our wedding in France. My handsome man, my husband, my Tom. Our short marriage has had a tumultuous beginning and I fear the poor man has endured more hurt than he should in a lifetime before we've even celebrated half a year.

My stoic man in public, my emotional man behind closed doors, my tireless support. I knew this would be hard on Tom and it took a lot of convincing for me to agree to take him on a journey that would inevitably involve anxious waits and shattering blows. The first time I couldn't contain my excitement, rushing back to the bedroom where he slept and waking him by bouncing on the mattress to wave the little stick in front of his bleary eyes.  
"I can't read it, is it positive?" he said with a tentative smile, which turned to a frown before I could answer. "Darling, did you just pee on that?"  
"Yes and yes!" I squealed. We hugged and kissed and cried together in unbridled joy even though we both should have known better.  
"It's gone," the doctor would tell us a few weeks later. We left the hospital with a stack of forms for early tests in case there might be a next time, and Tom's broken heart in my hands. "Keep trying," she said, as though I were a small child who's colouring slipped outside the lines.

"Really? So soon?" he said over the phone when next time came. "Have you had the blood test?"  
"Yes," I replied sheepishly. "Every two days for two weeks."  
His scolding was a small sacrifice for the reassurance that I wouldn't have to see that pain in his eyes again.  
But I did.  
The second loss was exponentially worse than the first because we knew it was happening when the magic number on my blood tests plateaued and then began to fall. Being prepared didn't soften the blow, nor did the doctor's encouraging words about making it a little further this time and not giving up hope. Tom came home despite my protests and only when he held me and cried I realised he needed me as much as I needed him. His eyes were dull and grey when he asked me if I wanted to continue, if I was sure I could endure further months of uncertainty.  
And I meant it when I said 'yes'. But Tom... my big-hearted man, my selfless man, my sensitive man... he was fraying at the seams. I can carry the burden for us both, handle the fear and nauseating anxiety as the days tick over, but I won't subject him to it. I'd do it for him, but not to him. After the next month he stopped asking and I stopped bringing it up. Knowing how terrible Tom is with dates I knew he wouldn't know when he should start to wonder so I deliberately didn't talk about it and just made sure we were together at the right times.

The clock on top of the piano is about to tick beyond midnight and into Christmas day, and Tom should have been home hours ago. We haven't spoken as regularly the past two months and I've made excuses not to travel to him like I normally would. I miss him terribly and I just need him to be here now. My eyes keep falling closed so I move into the kitchen and boil the kettle for a cup of tea, stifling a yawn while I pull down two mugs in the hope that a strong cuppa will summon him from thin air.  
"Merry Christmas," I say softly, tugging my cardigan around my chest.  
Finally I hear his key in the lock and run to the door as he's opening it.  
"Hello, my darling," he says in his deep, smooth voice, wrapping his arms around me and kicking the door closed. "I thought you'd be sleeping."  
"I was waiting up for you. What happened?"  
"I'm so sorry. My phone was flat and our flight was delayed... I'm here now."  
I'm swept up in his deep kiss, our tongues thoroughly reacquainted and my lips swollen when he pulls back.  
"May I take you to bed, Mrs Hiddleston?"  
"In a minute, I have something for you."  
"It can wait until morning," he says, kissing my neck. "I have something else that won't."  
"Tom," I giggle. "I mean it."  
"Bec, there is nothing you could give me right now that would be more satisfying than what I'm offering. Technically it isn't Christmas yet."  
"It is, it's after midnight. Now sit on the couch, please." He's not an easy man to argue with at the best of times, and when he comes home all amorous and with that telltale bulge hard against my hip it's a hundred times worse. Sometimes I win, though. He flops down on the couch while I switch on the television and DVD player.  
"What's this?" he asks at the black and white mottled screen. "It looks like-" he cuts off and covers his mouth with a huge hand when the white becomes larger and clearer. "Is it?"  
"Yes, Tom. That's our baby."  
"It's... but... there are limbs and a head. This isn't anything like last time."  
"We're a little more developed than before. About ten weeks."  
"Ten?! Rebecca Hiddleston, you promised me-"  
I silence him with a finger on his lips and unmute the television. A whooshing beat fills the room thanks to the speaker system and he looks around and then back at me.  
"That is our baby's heartbeat. And it's chosen a better address this time. Less hostile, more fertile."  
For the next ten minutes I point out all of the things the doctor pointed out to me; the head, the bum, the arms and legs, the length (apparently bub gets his or hers from their father), and the position in my womb far away from the scarred areas.  
"She's confident it will be ok. No guarantees, but everything looks good."  
"I... I can't even... there will be consequences for this, miss. You're lucky I'm too happy to be mad. I love you."  
"I love you, too. You can take me to bed now."

He undresses me slowly, reverently, taking his time with every button and clasp, dragging my sleeves and bra straps down my arms and rolling my panties delicately down to my ankles. Lying me back on the bed he kisses up the inside of my legs, alternating sides and abrading my smooth skin with his scratchy goatee. From the dark spatter of stubble when he left it's a positive change and I must remember to tell him how I love it, he's always so conscious of its ginger colouring.

Nuzzling my cleft he inhales deeply and groans against my mound before parting my labia with his tongue and lapping lazily around my clit. I don't know if it's the lessons in elocution, the vocal training, or natural talent, but the things this man can do with his tongue are so sinful he should never be allowed within a block of a church. I'm certain half of them are illegal in some countries.  
Tom builds me slowly until I'm clutching at the sheets, tormented moans torn from my throat as he slides two fingers inside and finally tips me over the edge, drawing it out until I'm quaking on the bed.

Kissing up over my torso he catches my nipple in his mouth and teases with his tongue while I attempt to catch my breath, meeting my lips in a searing kiss while I push him to his back and straddle his hips. His erection presses into my stomach as I move back and forth and nip at his jaw and neck, dripping precum between our bodies. I guide him inside and sink down his length, savouring every vein and texture of his thick pink cock as it fills me, rocking forward and back slowly while his teeth clench in appreciation.

I sit upright and Tom rises to press against me, his hands roaming my back and pulling my hips faster as I grind down on his length. He rubs all the right places inside and I know when he grips the back of my head and holds my face against his he's close, his nose squashing mine as we move together and my walls contract in ecstasy, triggering his release.  
As I tuck my head into his shoulder he smooths my hair with his long fingers and kisses it gently, pausing to inhale the scent.  
"I missed you so much, I thought I'd upset you or something when you didn't come over."  
"I'm sorry I kept it from you, Tom. I just couldn't put you through that all over again if it didn't work out, I didn't want to see that pain in your eyes ever again."  
"You don't need to protect me, darling. That's my job. Promise me you'll be honest from now on."  
"I promise."  
"Good," he says with a yawn.  
I was expecting a little more chastising but in less than two minutes he's in a deep sleep while I draw patterns on his bare chest in the moonlight.

"Merry Christmas, my love," he says as my eyes flutter open the next morning. "Did you sleep well?"  
"Very well," I roll over so our bodies are pressed together and snuggle into his warmth.  
"That really happened, didn't it? I didn't dream it?"  
I smile and look up into his face, stroking my fingers over his jaw and cheek. "We're having a baby, Tom. You're going to be a daddy."  
"Best Christmas gift ever," he says with a smile and a hint of tears in his blue eyes. "Say it again."  
"You're going to be a daddy. Merry Christmas."  
"I know we're not out of the woods yet, but what you've endured to get here is remarkable. You amaze me."  
"Seeing that joy on your face makes it all worth it."

Two hours later we emerge from the bedroom and exchange gifts – a leather camera bag for me and custom leather gloves for mister 'my hands are frozen but my fingers are ridiculously long' – and spend the rest of the day and early evening celebrating with Tom's family. I easily agreed to his request to keep our news between us a little longer given he has so few secrets its a novelty being the only two people in the world who know, but I think the way we've behaved with the children and babies coupled with me politely declining alcohol has well and truly given us away. By the end of the day all three Hiddleston women have given me a knowing smile and wink uncannily like the one Tom has given me more than once across the table.

Late in the evening we sit outside and enjoy another still night where the stars twinkle a little brighter than usual and I make a wish on a passing meteorite. All I need is for everything to turn out ok. Whatever I have to go through, however anxious I might be that we'll be heartbroken again, I need a happy ending. For my loving, spirited, family man.  
Falling asleep in his arms that night I have an unfamiliar feeling of security in our future and inexplicable faith that it will all be ok.

With Christmas and New Year celebrations behind us I wake with Tom's warm breath on my neck and smile; the novelty of having him home showing no sign of wearing off. The reassured feeling of a few weeks ago has been replaced with butterflies of anxiety as my still slumbering body belies my racing thoughts. The man-sloth stirs and rubs his hands over my front while holding me with his long legs. "Good morning, love. Excited about today?"  
"Yes," I say softly.  
He pulls me to my back and waits for me to look up, his hand covering the tiny swelling below my navel.  
"I know you're worried, but I just know everything is fine in there. We have a healthy baby in there, darling. I can feel it."  
"I hope so."  
"How about I relax you a bit before we go?" His lips catch mine in a gentle kiss as he slides a knee between my legs and covers me with his body, his hand kneading my breast. "You know I always thought your breasts were perfect, but now..." he shifts his body down so his mouth is level with the valley in between. "Delectable."

His touch silences my fears, his thrusts make the rest of the world fall away, our mutual climax leaves me bathed in bliss and still calm and sated as I stand under the rushing water of a hot shower. I let my hands tentatively explore the new contours of my body, my breasts that now spill over the cups of my bra, the tiny new bump in my abdomen that could easily be mistaken for overindulgence.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat as we approach the hospital, the litre of water I had to drink on the way threatening to embarrass me if I have to wait too long and my coffee breakfast churning in my stomach. Tom wanted me to eat something but the thought gave me nausea that had nothing to do with pregnancy. He reaches over and laces our fingers together wordlessly, curling his lips in a reassuring smile.

As I wait to be called I bounce on the balls of my feet and try to occupy myself with emails and people watching, and just as Tom tries to pull me into a chair we're summoned into the doctor's room.  
"Was he surprised?" she says animatedly.  
Tom shoots me and then the doctor his best hurt look. "You knew she wasn't telling me?"  
"She wanted to surprise you when you came home for Christmas." She shrugs.  
"He was, yeah. And only a tiny bit homicidal."  
She laughs and gestures me up onto the table, lifting my shirt out of the way and splodging cold gel over my pelvis.  
"You've got a little bump there, Becca," she says as she spreads it around and watches the screen. "So today we're looking for any heart issues and we'll do a thorough look around. I have a specialist on standby just in case anything comes up, ok? We're also looking for indicators for chromosomal abnormalities like Down Syndrome and spinal formation defects. And of course some pretty pictures of your baby."  
After a few minutes moving the probe around and typing she shares the screen to the monitor mounted in the ceiling at the end of the table so Tom and I can see arms and legs moving around on it in black and white.  
"That's your baby. Kicking around looking very cosy in there, heart rate is good and I can't see anything to be concerned about." He squeezes my hand and wipes a tear from his cheek. "That's our baby," he whispers.

5 months later

"Why don't we skip the anniversary dinner, love?" Tom says as I puff around trying to get dressed into something people won't mistake for a 6-person tent.  
"Tom, you only get a first anniversary once. We're going."  
"It's just that you look-"  
"What?" I cut him off. "Fat? The size of a house? About ready to pop?"  
"Stunning. You look absolutely stunning." He smooths his hands down my sides to my aching hips, earning a groan from me as he rubs gently. "I was going to say you look exhausted and like you'd sooner stay at home."  
"I'm fine, just your not-so-little acorn is getting comfy in my ribs."  
"Be kind to your mummy," he says to my stretched and swollen belly. "Better?"  
"Not at all, but it was cute."  
"It's your birthday as well, and if you want to stay at home I don't mind."  
"I don't. It's my last without needing a precision military operation to leave the house on our own."  
"Or a nanny, but I'm not keen on opening that can of worms again. Ok, let's go then."

I thought we'd be taking the Jag, but he's arranged a car to meet us at the door, I assume so that he can have a drink for us both. It's not that he doesn't let me drive his car on the odd occasion, but I literally can't fit my huge pregnant belly behind the steering wheel any more.  
Because Tom has been home for the last five weeks I'm all up to date on his news, so the conversation inevitably turns to baby names.  
"Admit it, you wanting William has nothing to do with it being a family name."  
"But it is a family name, so it fits."  
"We are not calling it William, or Will, or Shakespeare."  
"Well of course," he rolls his eyes, "Shakespeare is just being pompous."  
"I would consider Billy, though. For a boy or a girl."  
"Ok. We have one name we agree on. What about George?"  
"Nope. Prince George. Cedric?"  
"Absolutely not. Charlie?"  
I take a few moments to consider it because I haven't before. "I like it. A lot, actually. Charlie Hiddleston. What do you think of Buster?"  
"Did you just make that up?" he says incredulously.  
"No, but obviously it's off the list," I sigh. "We're gonna have a nameless baby in a month, Tom."  
He pulls out his phone and starts running through lists from Norbert to Zara and everything in between, each met with varying degrees of disapproval. A hard kick in my back makes me straighten and inhale sharply through my teeth, replaced by a dull ache that has me rubbing at it as he suggests more names and orders dessert.  
"Are you all right? You're very pale," he says, taking my hand across the table.  
"Yeah. The baby just moved down and into my hips, I think."  
"That's good, isn't it?"  
"Anything's better than puffing like a pack a day smoker," I say with a laugh, holding my stomach to breathe deep through the pain.

The decadent chocolate dessert is arranged so beautifully on the plate – with three varieties and colours of chocolate and a tiny but rich lava cake as the centrepiece – I almost don't want to eat it. Before I do I punch out two paracetamol and toss them into my mouth, washing them down with my sparkling water. At this point my due date can't come soon enough; not only am I impatient to meet our baby and fed up with the constant pain in my back and hips, not knowing the sex is driving me crazy with suspense.  
On the other hand the poor kid doesn't have a name yet, just a short list of selections we don't hate.

Once I feel so full I might explode I push the plate across to Tom without needing to ask if he'd like to finish it off. He pays the bill and insists on taking me home without delay, I'd like to argue with him but the tablets have yet to touch either the ache in my back or the pains in my pelvis so a cup of tea and a hot water bottle is an offer I can't refuse. His grip is tight on my hand as he helps me stand up, and then there's such an intense and sudden heaviness between my legs that I gasp, convinced the baby is about to fall out.  
"What is it?" he asks with a tight arm around what used to be my waist.  
"I don't know... nothing," I say as I straighten and the awkward sensation fades with my first couple of steps.

By the time we're out in the warm evening – by London standards – it's forgotten. Tom takes a little convincing but we decide to make the fifteen minute walk rather than get a cab, I'm hoping the cramps will ease as they usually do if I keep moving. With every passing minute I find them intensifying until my breath is turning shallow every block or so and Tom is frowning so hard his eyebrows might actually exchange places.  
"We should get a cab from here," he says when we're only a block away, laying a large hand on the small of my back.  
"I'm fine, I just need to stop for a minute."  
His long arms wrap around me and hold me as tight as he can with a watermelon belly squashed between us, and in that moment I realise his arms aren't only made for reaching the top shelf; if he didn't have them he wouldn't be holding me so safe and secure with my head resting on his chest.  
A tiny trickle runs down my leg and over my swollen-to-elephant-proportions foot.  
"Uh-oh."  
"What's wrong?"  
"I think my water just broke."  
We both look down between us to the growing puddle on the ground and Tom leaps into action, hailing a cab and putting me in it first.  
"Uh, the hospital."  
"Wait, I need my bag first."  
Reluctantly he directs the driver home and runs inside for my hospital bag, tossing the last few things in as he's closing the door.  
"Tom," I clamp a hand on his firm thigh. "What if its too early?"  
"Breathe, darling. It's only four weeks, I'm sure everything is fine. He or she is just desperate to meet us."  
The majority of the short journey is spent with Tom worrying about me and me worrying about my likely ruined dress, given it's the only one that fits my mammoth arse in its current state.  
"You're well and truly in labour," Carla, our amazing midwife, says after a horrifically uncomfortable examination. They really need a better warning system than 'this might feel a bit strange'. "I've called your doctor and she's on her way. You can get up and move around if you like."  
"She's planning on it," Tom says as he's pulling an oil burner and music from the bag.  
"I don't need any of that yet. Just you."

By the time the sun rises the next morning I've reached my limit. Tom has kept my spirits up and kept me laughing – even at one point suggesting 'while you're down there' when I was sitting on an exercise ball with my arms around his waist, knowing he was risking his own life – but now I've had enough. I've bounced, I've rocked, I've swayed until I can't stand any longer.  
"I need a break," I groan between contractions. "Can't do any more." I'm leaning into him with my arms around his neck and my forehead resting on his chest, rocking gently from side to side and hoping gravity might be helping things along.  
Carla appears at the end of the bed. "I don't think you'll be much longer, hun. You're only a minute apart, sometimes less. I can see if bub is ready to come out?"  
"Does that involve you putting your hand in my throat through my vagina again?"  
"Yes, it does," she chuckles. "Last one, I promise."  
"Fine," I surrender, lying back on the bed and trying not to jam my legs closed or crawl backwards up the bed while she measures around my cervix – though it feels more like she's pulling me inside out.  
She has a quiet word to Tom and leaves the room.  
"What's going on?"  
"She's gone to get the doctor and get everything ready, you're almost there."

He massages slow circles with his knuckles on my lower back, the pressure both excruciating and relieving the pain in my abdomen at the same time. I'm standing and leaning over the bed, and my plan was to birth upright but just as Carla returns with an armful of blankets my legs buckle, so they help me onto the bed instead.  
Up until this point I've probably made more noise than I realise, and definitely more than I planned to. I was going to be one of those calm, quiet, serene sort of women who just gets the job done so it's fun when reality kicks your arse. Now though, everything turns inward. I've never been so tired, I can barely keep my eyes open and my entire body screams for rest, for a break from being torn apart, just for a few minutes.  
I can't even hold myself upright, so Tom squeezes in between me and the back of the bed and kneads my shoulders. Carla encourages me to trust my body, let it do what it needs to do and go with it when it wants to push, as though I have any choice. Tom never stops cooing in my ear, his soothing voice reminding me we're almost there, spurring me on with supportive words. He counters every 'I can't' with 'you can' and never complains about the crushing hold I have on his hand.  
"One more," Carla says. "One big one and you're done."

The entire room goes into hyperdrive then, streaking silver lines and all. I get a very brief hold of a screaming bundle of blankets before it's whisked into Tom's arms and I'm laid down flat. Vaguely aware of three people working on my intimate bits it's only now that I remember I was booked in for a wax next week and I hurl apologies at them for the lack of landscaping.  
There's laughter from everyone at my expense, but laughter is good. No one laughs if someone's life is in danger, right?  
I look up at Tom.  
Tears are streaming down his face as tiny fingers curl around his ring finger. He looks concerned, but they're tears of joy and he's quieted his precious bundle as he cradles it in his arms.  
"Tom? Boy or girl?" I croak.  
His lips move but all I hear is blood rushing through my ears, and I can't keep my eyes open any longer.

"Hi," I hear him whisper. "Your mummy has had a big day but I promise you can snuggle in there just as soon as she wakes up, all right?"  
A tiny cry echoes around the room as I open my eyes.  
"Tom?"  
"Hey, beautiful. Would you like to meet your daughter now?"  
"It's a girl?"  
"It's a girl, and she's just the most perfect thing I've ever seen. She's been checked over and she's a little on the small side but otherwise fine. She's pretty keen for some mummy time."  
He pulls back the blanket and unwraps the most divine pink baby I've ever seen, tucking her under my gown so her bare front is against my skin. She's warm and soft, squirming her way down my chest until she's rooting around for my nipple. Tom sits me up a little so I can hold her while she suckles at my breast, making tiny contended noises every few seconds.  
Tears prickle the back of my eyes and by the time Tom wraps an arm around my shoulders I'm sobbing with relief that she's finally here. He dabs my face with a handkerchief and toes off his shoes, slipping under the covers to hold me tight until the bawling subsides.  
"You're ok, too. They were a bit worried for a minute and you passed out when your blood pressure dropped, but you're absolutely fine. You did good, mummy."  
"I can't believe it. She's here and she's safe. And she still doesn't have a name," I chuckle through my tears.  
"How about Jessica Nell?" he whispers.  
She chooses that moment to reach her tiny hand up and slap my chest.  
"I think she likes it. It's perfect."  
"You have given us the most amazing anniversary gift, darling. I love you both so much."  
I groan. "I don't have to top it next year, do I?"


	2. Golden Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Becca watches the Golden Globes, unable to travel due to pregnancy risks

Rubbing vigorously at my bleary eyes I pick up my phone from Tom’s pillow and scrub a hand over my face. After a few seconds the screen comes into focus and I open the text from Ilaria.  
 _So sorry you can’t be here, but a MASSIVE congratulations! Please don’t be mad at Tom, he let it slip that you’re not allowed to travel and he was too excited to keep it to himself. Hopefully now that he’s told me he’ll refrain from telling every person he meets tonight. He wanted double-breasted and he told me how you’d love it so here’s a little sneak-peek. We’ll talk soon, sweetie!_  
  
I can’t help but shake my head and smile, as if I could ever be mad at him being so excited. We agreed to keep the pregnancy under wraps as long as possible but she’s right, get a bit of alcohol in him and he’ll be telling the press on the red carpet, especially without Luke there to keep him under control.   
She’s attached two photos, one of him sitting back scrolling on his phone with his jacket undone and pink striped socks on full display. My big dork and his loud socks, no doubt those were the brightest of the choices she offered him. The other he’s standing with his arms spread to show off the cut of the Gucci suit and even after all this time I gasp at how handsome he is. He’s always gorgeous to me, even in his holey track pants with bed hair – who am I kidding, especially with bed hair and even more so at the current length – but he’s just stunning in a well-tailored tuxedo and this one is a thing of beauty.   
I yawn and check the time on the bedside clock; it’s almost 1am. The Becca of a year ago would have been awake with the television on already, would have stayed up all night celebrating if I couldn’t be there with him. We talked about hosting a party but the time difference rained on that parade, so Luke is going to call me when Tom’s category is up and I’ve no doubt Tom will text me during the evening if anything exciting happens. Leaving the television on in the bedroom I do my best to stay awake while E! shows me all the red carpet news but it’s a losing battle and the next thing I know there’s a text from Tom.   
_Sorry I didn’t call earlier, I didn’t want to wake you knowing how tired you’ve been. We won, darling. Hugh picked up supporting actor. Could not be more proud. Wish you were here xxx_  
I type out a quick reply and thanks to the delay I catch the end of Hugh on the screen. _That’s fantastic, give him my congratulations. I still have everything crossed for you, wish I could be there too xxx_  
I’m startled by the vibration of it ringing, still in my hand despite me falling back to sleep in between.   
“Hey, Luke.”   
“I woke you, I’m sorry,” I can hear him cringe. “Tom is up in a minute or so.”   
“I asked you to wake me,” I chuckle and sit up. “Thank you.”   
Only then I see another text from Tom. _Gosh Olivia won as well. Can’t believe it._  
I’m awake and watching now, I reply. Can’t wait to see you.   
You don’t ever have to wait, darling. He sends me a selfie, pulling one of his scrunched-up faces that makes me laugh and holding a half-full glass of champagne. I grab the bottle of water from the bedside table and take the first mouthful as they’re reading the nominees, a wide grin spreading over my face when he appears on the screen.  
That’s my husband. My Tom. It’s still surreal.   
And then they’re reading out his name and I’m coughing and spluttering, covering myself in water.   
Holy fuck. He fucking won. He won.   
Nervous Tom is something I don’t see all that often, even less when he has his game face on. During interviews, red carpets, award ceremonies, the game face is always on. Nerves and anxiety very rarely penetrate the mask, he just metabolises it into excited fidgeting and animated speech. That isn’t to say anything he does is fake, he just gets comfortable quickly and until then he pretends to be. It’s part of who he is.   
He’s quaking in his shiny shoes now, though. His speech is heartfelt and articulate, few people would know it was unprepared as far as the actual words. I heard all about that night when he came home, it deeply touched him to know that his work had more than just the purpose of fleeting entertainment, that sometimes it earns praise from people who are doing what he considers far more important jobs than his. While he was telling it I half thought he was about to announce he was applying to medical school so he could join them.   
Which would be a terrible mistake, because under pressure his mathematical skills are even worse than usual, if there weren’t a calculator available lives would be in danger.

The ten minutes between his leaving the stage on my screen and his phone call are among the longest of my life despite rewinding and watching his speech three times in that time.   
“I’m so proud of you, baby. So proud. You’re magnificent and the whole world is gonna know it,” I begin before he can say anything. My voice shakes and tears stream unbidden down my cheeks as I hear his trembling inhalation on the other end.   
“God I wish you could be here, Bec. I have to be dreaming, right? I can’t… I just can’t believe it. Was my speech ok?”   
“It was perfect. You’re perfect.”   
“I… Uh, I have to get back to the table but I’ll call you from the hotel in a couple of hours.”   
“Listen to me, Hiddleston,” I say sternly, wiping my eyes. “You will go out, you will celebrate, and get gloriously drunk. I do not want you back in that hotel room before three a.m. Understand?”   
“Ehehe. I love you, my darling.”   
“I love you too. Now go have fun.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_He’s going to kill me,_ I keep telling myself. I’ve wrapped myself up in layers and the bump is still invisible under clothing so I’m not worried about anyone making assumptions, I’m just another wife greeting her husband at the airport.   
Tom can not hide or blend in anywhere he goes. Partly this is thanks to his height, he just stands a head above most people and eyes are naturally drawn to him. The rest is just his presence, the way he carries himself, with his shoulders pushed back and chest high even when he is supposedly trying to get lost in the crowd. Tom Hiddleston, Golden Globe winner, returning to Heathrow the day after his surprise win, has less than a snowflake’s chance in hell.   
_He’s going to kill me, and I don’t care._  
The second I spot his burnished curls, right before the flashes start up, I’m almost running toward him. At first he startles, then frowns, but I’m forgiven when he sets his bag down and opens his arms wide, catching me with his strong arms as I launch myself at him, spinning me around until my feet leave the ground and breaking our kiss with a broad smile.   
“What are you doing here?” he growls low in my ear through clenched teeth.   
“Surprising my husband at the airport,” I reply with a sickly-sweet smile.   
He shakes his head and slings his backpack on his shoulder, taking his suitcase in hand and wrapping the other arm tight around my shoulders. Instinct takes over and he answers questions as we go, thanking everyone for their congratulations and beaming all the way into the car park.   
He turns to me before turning the ignition. “Was it bad?”   
“What? The paps?”   
“No, my speech. Give it to me straight, was it bad?”   
When this insecurity takes over he gets this expression that is like a throw back to his preschool self, the ‘four year old Tom in smart stripy trousers’. Every line on his face softens and his eyes turn a deep blue, his face tipping downward so he looks up through his lashes, a frown making a tiny crease between his eyebrows.   
“It was heartfelt and obviously not pre-prepared. If people twist it the wrong way that’s their misinterpretation, not your intent. The important people saw the feeling behind the words and the rest can go to hell.”   
“Do you know how much I love you?”   
“Yeah, I know. Now take me home, I’ve always wanted to sleep with a Golden Globe winner.”


End file.
